


What I Say, What I Mean

by HamHamHeaven



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22731520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamHamHeaven/pseuds/HamHamHeaven
Summary: The thoughts in my headare not what I say aloud.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	What I Say, What I Mean

“What sort of music do you like?”

_I’m actually not comfortable telling you that. I realize that for most people, things like books, movies, and music are normal topics of get-to-know-you small talk. But to me, stories and music are a very deep part of who I am. They are also things I spent a majority of my childhood being mocked for, so I don’t have any desire to discuss them with someone I don’t yet trust. I’m not willing to open myself up to ridicule again. Besides, how can I be sure that you won’t go blabbing what I consider a personal disclosure to half a dozen other people if what I do share turns out to be something that to you is “not a big deal”?_

“Oh, you know, a little of everything.”

~~~

“We should get together sometime soon!”

_I know that getting together is what friends do. We’re friends, so ostensibly I should want to do that. Yet, the very idea fills me with dread. It is physically and emotionally exhausting even anticipating the hours spent in a public setting, constantly having to think of things to say to stave off the inevitable awkward silence that always results from my prolonged interactions with anyone. I will play imaginary conversations over and over in my head for the entire week preceding our “get together”. And for literally months afterwards, my brain will dissect and pick apart every miserable thing I said to point out how unpardonably stupid I sounded. Please, for the love of gods, be the sort of person who never follows through on “making plans”._

“Yeah, totally!”

~~~

“Did you miss me?”

_No. Why would I? You’ve been gone less than 36 hours. Discounting the hours we’d have normally been separated being at work anyway and time spent asleep, we’ve had maybe 5 hours apart. Am I supposed to go to pieces over 5 lost hours? That seems incredibly, unhealthily co-dependent to me._

“Of course.”

~~~

“Where do you want to go for lunch?”

_There’s literally dozens of different places in this town that I would love to go. Mexican, sushi, Japanese, Korean, Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, the little bistro just across from the courthouse in the Square. New places that have recently opened up. Places that have been local staples for decades but that I’ve never actually been to. Except, they serve seafood; you’re allergic to shellfish. Or they’re ethnic; you make a point of ordering the kids’ chicken tenders basket at ethnic restaurants. Or they’re vegetarian; you turn up your nose when you notice that the gourmet pizza has fresh basil on it. Because eww green. And you’re aware that I don’t eat red meat, but the last three times we’ve gone out, you’ve chosen a steak house because it’s what you were in the mood for. They serve chicken, right?_

“Wherever you want is fine.”

~~~

“I know you said you didn’t want to celebrate, but happy birthday!”

_So you acknowledge that you heard the words that came out of my mouth. Yet, after a decade’s acquaintance, you still haven’t managed to process the fact that I’m not one of those people who says one thing while meaning the opposite. That I, in fact, loathe people who play those sorts of mind games. You’d rather buy into the cliché of stereotypical human behaviour just to be “safe” than respect me enough to believe I’m speaking the truth._

“Thanks?”

~~~

“I love you.”

_Why are you looking at me like that? That expectant, almost demanding look on your face. Like I’m obligated to parrot the phrase back to you because you said it first. A compulsory call and response; the routine “bless you” after a sneeze. Even though I’ve explained to you what feels like a million times that words that are said out of habit are meaningless. They don’t carry any weight. And the thing I’ve never said to you because you never seem to actually comprehend me when I try to tell you what’s going on in my head – that it feels like you aren’t saying the words “I love you” because you feel them. You’re saying the words because your ego wants to hear the words back._

“Love you too.”

~~~

“You were wearing those the first night I slept over.”

_I find it incredibly disturbing that you remember that night with so much detail. Not joking. To the core of my soul, creeped out. Why do you remember that? Why are you telling me that you remember that? Are you expecting me to feel gratified at having made an impression? I’m sorry, but from my perspective, it feels like nothing so much as an incredible violation. I don’t want you dwelling on every detail of what was, to me, a very forgettable experience. One that I’m now starting to regret even happened if this is the way you’re going to be about it. I don’t want you thinking about me and remembering me in that way. Don’t fetishize me. Don’t fantasize about me. Frankly, don’t even think about me. Do me a favour, and forget that I exist._

“If you say so.”

~~~

“Why do you sleep so close to the edge of the bed?”

_Because you insist on constantly touching me. There’s no earthly reason your hand needs to be on my hip while falling asleep, and if you had even the smallest grain of awareness you would notice how stiff and uncomfortable it makes me every. Single. Time. Please just stop touching me. Is that so difficult to understand? I don’t like to be touched! Mostly because I don’t trust you anymore. There have been far too many times when the innocent hand on the hip had been a pathetically juvenile attempt to segue to something else. Something that by now you ought to realize I find repulsive. Apparently you can’t be bothered to read the room, and I don’t have the energy for the fight that would ensue if I told you as bluntly as I’d like to keep your hands to yourself. If I just lie here very still, as far away from you as I can physically get, eventually you’ll either roll over or fall asleep._

“I dunno. Habit.”


End file.
